


your voice, calling my name

by junes_discotheque



Series: lead me astray [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Dom/sub Play, F/M, Fingerfucking, First Time, Kissing, Light Bondage, Spoilers for Episode: s12e01-02 Spyfall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:28:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22170322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: That Scene. The Master gets a bit distracted and decides to continue their conversation somewhere a little more private.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Series: lead me astray [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600486
Comments: 15
Kudos: 323





	your voice, calling my name

**Author's Note:**

> I wandered away from this fandom ten years ago, and then gifs from Spyfall found their way onto my dash, and now I'm back with some smut. As you do, I guess.

“Call me by my name,” he says, and she rolls her eyes. Obvious; dramatic. It doesn’t occur to her for a second that he might see through it. For as long as they’ve known each other, as _intimately,_ he still tends to take her at face value.

“Master,” she says, quiet, and when prompted, repeats it; louder, more forceful, a _bite_ in her voice. “ _Master_.”

And then, a third time.

Softer.

A bit of the _truth_ leaking out of her. “Master.” 

He’s the one who brings his fist to his mouth, who breathes heavily into his glove, who looks like he’s barely keeping himself from jumping her right there in the middle of the gallery. But the Doctor - she’s just as affected, every molecule of her still-so-unfamiliar body trembling as the syllables of his name echo back into her. Warmth slipping through her veins, into the core of her. 

“Up,” he says. “Get up, get -” and he’s reaching out, grabbing at her jacket - at her hair - hauling her to standing. He turns her around, so that her back is pressed to his front, and loops an arm around her neck. He’s a furnace, and she doesn’t fight him.

He waves his TCE at the crowd. The Doctor can hear the shouts, the scrambling, as she’s dragged backwards, but she doesn’t hear the whir of his weapon. She tells herself it’s because she’s complying, that he’s not killing.

She tells herself a lot of things.

The Master has parked his TARDIS in the middle of the street, and people and horses have gathered to gawk at the strange house that appeared out of nowhere. For a moment, she’s terrified he’ll kill them, too, but he seems too focused on getting her through the doors to care who else is around.

“Do you know, you could have just _asked_ ,” the Doctor says, once the door is shut behind them and the Master has got to work disappearing the TARDIS from the nineteenth century. She shakes her hair out and leans against the door frame. “All this time we were WhatsApp-ing. You could’ve -”

“Did you want him?” the Master asks, shoving a lever up and crossing his arms over his chest. “O. Did you want O?”

That’s - complicated. She tells him as much, and he laughs at her. Same as ever; silly Doctor, who’s never understood her own desires, and more readily shoves them aside than - indulges.

“It’s not so complicated,” the Master says. He comes around and stands before her, so that she has to press her back to the wall and tilt her head up to look at him. It’s a strange position, and she realizes how rarely she’s been smaller than him.

(Has she _ever_ been smaller than him?)

(Maybe once, when they were children.)

(It’s hard to recall.)

She doesn’t hate it.

“What do you want?” she asks, as if she doesn’t know, and he brushes his fingers over her temple, _whispers_ in her head.

“Yes,” she says aloud, an answer to a question only she can hear, and then the Master is on her - around her - throwing his gloves to the floor so he can press his bare hands to her face and kiss her. 

She bites his lip, and he laughs, and as the faint taste of his blood flits over the tip of her tongue, she hears his mind, clear as anything - what he wants. And, with it, reverberating between them, what _she_ -

The Doctor could say it’s what she wants to give him, but it would be another pretty lie. She doesn’t care about _giving_ him anything. What she desires - it’s hers, and hers alone. 

And she -

She _wants._

“Master,” she says, and this time she strips away the sarcasm, the eye roll, the bitterness of aeons. Peels back all the masks she’s built on top of each other, so that there’s nothing left but the raw, twisted _need_ that builds up inside her when he’s gone.

“ _Doctor,_ ” he breathes, his eyes wide and shocked. He says her name like he wants her to say his. 

She raises her hands to her own throat and, fingers trembling, slowly undoes her bow tie. He stares at her hungrily, but doesn’t move to help - doesn’t move at all until she’s pressed the strip of fabric into his palm and smiled up at him.

And then - 

He _does_. 

His hand around her wrist, first, squeezing hard as he pulls her over to his console. She stumbles over her own feet as she struggles to keep up with his wide, quick stride, though in truth she’s not as clumsy as she lets him believe. It’s more habit, by now; an act to keep her underestimated. She doesn’t know if he buys it or not.

The Master uses her bow tie to bind her wrists above her head, securing her to a thin metal bar that’s just high enough that she has to raise up, a little, on her toes.

“Well, you’ve got me,” she says, flexing her fingers and realizing he’s tied her loose enough that it’ll be a long time before discomfort sets in. “Now what?”

He looks a little confused, at that, but quickly hides it as he grins.

“Now, I do whatever I want,” he says. “ _Doctor_.”

The Doctor doesn’t bother hiding her shiver at that. He’s so warm, so close to her, but the heat isn’t just coming from him. Her own body feels like a thousand suns. “Show me,” she challenges. 

“Ah,” the Master says. He trails his fingers down her front, slipping over the buttons of her shirt but leaving them fastened, until he gets to the waistband of her trousers. This, he does open, and lets it fall to the floor, leaving her in her red tartan boxers and suspenders. He pushes his hand under her shirt and presses it to her stomach. Her body leeches the heat from his hand, pooling lower - where -

“I’ve always liked seeing you blush, Doctor,” he says, as his other hand comes up to cup her chin, his thumb brushing over her fiery cheekbone. “This body of yours is particularly suited to it.”

The Doctor rubs her thighs together, squirming a little as she tries to relieve some of the pressure building inside of her. The tie rubs her wrists, and it almost hurts - a reminder of how helpless he’s made her. She bites her lip, and doesn’t make a sound, and he laughs.

“None of that,” he scolds, and she freezes instantly. “Beg me.”

“For what?” she asks, and she can’t tell if it’s her bravado challenging him or her inexperience seeking guidance.

“Well, that’s up to you, now isn’t it?” he says. “What do you want? My hand? My mouth?” He smirks. “My cock?”

“Um,” she says, and the heat in her face intensifies. He’s so _close_ to her. “I - I can’t. Master. _Please_.”

“Do you want me to decide for you, love?” he asks, and that - sounds easier. Better. She nods, and he leans in to kiss her. This time, she doesn’t bite him; she just closes her eyes and tries to _feel_. 

In stark opposition to the heat bleeding through his body, his mouth is cool and soft, and he kisses like she needs to be coaxed into responding. Which - she might. Until today she hadn’t done that yet in this body, and it’s a strange sensation as she works to figure out how her new lips and tongue move. The Master tugs at her hair while they kiss, swallows her sharp little gasps, and before she realizes what he’s doing the hand that was on her stomach has slipped its way under the waistband of her boxers.

His fingers press at her unexplored sex, and he grins against her lips as she cries out. The feeling is so - well - _alien_ ; it shocks her that for all she knew, of course, what anatomy she has, and she is certainly familiar with its function on _other people_ , she had no _idea -_

“So _wet,_ Doctor,” the Master says, and she wriggles in her bindings, tries to get his hand to _move,_ but he’s infuriatingly still. “Do you know what you’d like to beg for, yet?”

“Blast -” she chokes out. She _hates_ him, she really does. “Move your bloody _hand_.”

“Oh,” the Master says, and slides his hand out of her boxers. She thrashes, _hard_ , and tries to kick him, but he easily sidesteps her. “You said to move my hand. If you’d like to be more _specific,_ Doctor, I’m listening.”

The Doctor sighs and drops her head, letting her hair curtain her face. The Master tsks and tilts her head up. 

“No hiding,” he says. “Tell me what you need.”

“I need your - hand. Your fingers. On my -” she shakes her head. Stares up at him, blinking rapidly. “Please, _Master._ Please touch me.”

“Well,” the Master says. “Since you asked so nicely,” and he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of her boxers, before yanking them down.They catch around her knees, but he doesn’t seem to care, because his mouth is on her neck and his hand - 

His hand is back where she _needs_ it, two fingers stroking between her thighs, and his thumb rubbing circles over where she burns the brightest. She can barely breathe, and she knows it’s only thanks to her respiratory bypass that she’s still standing.

The Master’s teeth catch on her skin, and the bright, sharp pain travels right down to where he’s rubbing at her. Her wrists are on fire, from struggling so hard at her bonds - she needs to touch him, dig her fingers into his hair, hold his hand as he touches her and show him how she thinks she likes it - harder, and faster - he’s _teasing_ her -

She groans in frustration. “Come _on,_ ” she whines. “Please, _Master,_ make me -” and that’s apparently enough, because the fingers that have been petting at her suddenly shove inside her, and his thumb drags hard against her fire, and she hears screaming long before she realizes it’s coming from herself. Wave after wave of sensation crashes over her, pleasure slowly turning into pain as he doesn’t stop touching her oversensitive body. 

The Doctor doesn’t know how long she spends like that, but eventually, the Master does stop. Grips her waist with wet, sticky fingers, and with the hand that isn’t covered in _her,_ he wipes at her face.

She realizes, then, that she was crying, and when she looks at him, expecting to see that wide, satisfied smirk on his face, she sees -

Well.

“Um,” he says.

“Do you - if you untie me, I can -” she offers, nodding in the direction of his trousers. She thinks she sees a faint blush tinting his skin.

“Oh. That’s. Not necessary.”

She looks closer, in the second before he closes his coat over himself, and sees the dark, wet spot spreading over the fabric.

“Ah. I see,” she says. “Then - do you mind?” she wiggles her fingers, still trapped above her head. If he refuses, it’s no difficulty to free herself, but just like her decision to let him do this in the first place, she wants to see if he’ll actually untie her.

The Doctor needn’t have worried; he nearly stumbles in his haste to untie her from the console, and she lowers her arms slowly, working the soreness out of her shoulders. The skin around her wrists is an angry red, and she suspects she’ll bruise briefly. 

She looks forward to it, honestly.

He hovers by her as she tugs her boxers back on over her hips, and re-fastens her trousers. Her thighs are sticky, still, and a little wet, and she wishes she had thought to clean herself up with a handkerchief before re-dressing, but it seems a bit awkward to do it now.

And anyway, she - doesn’t hate the reminder.

“I suppose -” she says softly, and he nods.

“One more moment,” he says, and steps in to kiss her. She tips up on her toes a little, and this time she _can_ touch him. She can run her fingers through his hair, press her palms to the scruff of his beard. She can see the opportunity in front of her as clearly as the man, as she rubs her hands down his arms and threads their fingers together and -

She steps away and aims her sonic screwdriver at his wrist - where she’s tied him to his own TARDIS with her bow tie. Seals the knot. It won’t hold forever, but - it’ll give her a few minutes. 

All the time in the world, really.

“Thanks for the ride,” she says, as he struggles and shouts and spits. “I’ve got an evil plan to foil.”


End file.
